


a series of questionable quadrantmates

by elliptical



Series: the questionable chronicles [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Bounty Hunters, F/M, Multi, Murder, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6835684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliptical/pseuds/elliptical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The legislacerator smiles and opens her mouth, and out comes hyena laughter that licks the hairs on your arms, makes them stand straight up.  She laughs like a clown undone by a good punchline, leaning on her cane, no trace of fear.</p><p>“Miss me, hotshot?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a loose sequel to a series of questionable decisions, but also stands on its own

You’ve just settled in with your journal, pen poised and eyes searching Kankri’s face where he stands on his raised platform - more a collection of dead stumps in this forest clearing than anything - when Mituna tugs on your sleeve.

“We’re being followed,” he says.

His voice is pitched low enough that Kankri doesn’t hear. You stay as relaxed as possible, glancing around the trees. “I would know if there were other trolls around,” you say.

“They didn’t follow us into the woods. Hung back in the city. Wouldn’t make a note of it, except I’ve seen all three of ‘em hanging together in the last three towns. Seems kind of coincidental to see the same trolls in so many places. Flashes of them on the edges of crowded sermons, but never anywhere we’re all isolated, like they're taking down information. I haven't got close enough to make out faces, professions.”

“We haven’t split up in the last three towns. Hmm. Could just be following my beloved because they’re too shy to approach. What are the colors?”

“Two teal. One green.”

“We’ve had tealbloods on our tail for three towns and you didn’t say anything?”

“Would have if they trespassed.” Mituna shrugs, his shoulders a tense line. “Didn’t want to bring it up in case they turned out to be a… a problem I had to deal with.”

You don’t doubt the information. You’re a killer tracker in the woods and the desert, but crowds scramble up your senses. Easier to follow one rustle through the underbrush than pinpoint a million confusing scents. It’s not that the city makes you incompetent, but it does make you anxious, and Mituna is better at categorizing faces and movements of other trolls than you’ll ever be.

“But you’re bringing it up now?”

“Figure maybe you have a better way to deal with it than…”

“Hmm.” You consider for a moment. “We’re going to trap them.”

\---

Traps you can lay. Trolls don’t track this long without a game plan, and whether that involves calling in reinforcements or not is up for debate. Could be they haven’t moved yet because the four of you are a pack, one innocent heretic bordered on all sides by three bloodthirsty killers. There are reasons Kankri hasn’t fallen under a legislacerator’s boot yet.

So you’ll split off, see what they do. Warn Rosa of the potential of trouble at tonight’s sermon, since she’s more than capable of handling what the Empire throws at her. You, on the other hand - you loop your arm through Mituna’s and the pair of you amble away from the crowd, take a leisurely walk. Even love beyond quadrants occasionally needs space apart!

The trolls are interested in at least one of your boys. If it’s Kankri, there’s still a chance they’re just poking their claws in idle curiosity and starry-eyed adoration. If it’s Mituna…

Well, you packed your weapons for a reason.

“So,” you say, casual, conversational, “how many problems have you dealt with for us so far?”

A snuck glance shows the tips of his ears turning yellow. “I. Uh.”

“I’m not gonna be mad.”

“None. Not technically. Rosa told me she’d - that I didn’t - Rosa’s been taking care of problems.”

The relief blooms in your chest, makes your steps more buoyant. You try not to be too obvious about it, but you sigh and nudge your head affectionately against his shoulder, twining your fingers through his. “Good,” you say, squeezing his hand.

He flinches, imperceptible to most, but you and Kankri have the history to pick up on it.

“It ain’t about my moral standing,” you explain, quick. “I know trolls do what they have to do. But we told you we weren’t gonna make you kill anymore, and we meant it.”

He shrugs again. “You don’t need to coddle me.”

“It ain’t coddling.”

“You talk like the clowns, sometimes,” he says. It comes out idly, too relaxed, like he’s been waiting ages to bring it up but doesn’t want to be obvious. “Your accent, I mean.”

“We’ve both had our turns with the clowns. I just got out sooner than you did.”

“Oh. So you - I mean - he saved you too? I didn’t know. No one said anything in the Court.”

“Let’s just say you and me have more in common than either of us does with him. Which ain’t - isn’t a bad thing.” You squeeze his hand again and hop up on tiptoes, stretching to kiss his cheek. “It’s nice to have someone around who gets it. I promise you aren’t the worst person in our group. Not by far.”

“Is it fucked up that that’s kind of a relief?”

You laugh and shake your head, kiss his cheek again. “No, it’s a relief that it’s a relief. Hey. I love you.”

He grunts.

Then he tenses. “They’re following us.”

Well. Trolls after him have fewer reasons to be benevolent. Plenty of people want to get their hands on him for all the wrong reasons. Your pulse quickens, blood threading hot through your veins. “How far back?”

“Few blocks.”

You prick an ear and hear the footsteps, three pairs, faux casual. “Okay,” you say. “We’re going to head somewhere deserted, find out what they want, and settle this like adults.”

He winces.

“I can take three trolls if it comes to that,” you say. “Won’t be a problem. Don’t get your hands dirty - look away if you need to.”

“You don’t have to get involved in this,” he says. “I can find out what they want on my own. If they’re from the Court then this is - so fucking far from your problem it doesn’t even register on the scale, fuck, Meu, I don’t want to make you…”

“Relax. You aren’t making me do anything.”

His pace stumbles. “Meu.”

“Yeah?”

“They weren’t - not in uniform before, I didn’t - legislacerators, you should look.”

You crane your head back. Three uniformed lacerators, two teal and one green like he said. One with reflective red glasses, one with enough facial piercings that they catch the light even from this distance, one with a hand thrust casual into the pocket of his jacket like he’s fumbling for a drink instead of a gun.

You keep your pace steady. “You think they have bullets or tranq darts?” you murmur.

“If they were planning to kill they would have acted while we were in camp.”

“Mmm. Change of plan,” you say, and yank him into the alley that you’re passing.

You break into a sprint as soon as you’re out of sight of the lacerators, Mituna hot on your heels. A flying leap takes you to the edge of a garbage bin, and from there to the underside of a fire escape, swinging in a wide arc to plant your feet on the platform. Your moirail floats up beside you, his eyebrows raised.

“I recognize how dire this situation is,” he whispers, “but I could have just floated us both up. Showoff.”

You shake your head and press a finger to your lips, then mime raising something into the air. _Keep floating._

The pair of you climb the stairs silent, hauling ass onto the roof as three pairs of patter-footsteps enter the alley. You stay low, elbows planted on the ground, using your toes for propulsion leverage, wiggling toward the next roof. With any luck, they’ll keep going, think you ran farther than this - but the steps idle in the alley.

“Come on out, goldie,” a deep voice calls - from which of the lacerators, you couldn’t tell. “You aren’t in trouble.”

Mituna stiffens for a split second, then moves faster, throwing himself over the gap between this roof and the next. You land beside him stealthy, catlike, and then grab his waist and pull him onto the ground.

“Stay quiet until they move on,” you breathe, “and then we’ll figure out a plan.”

“Where you at?” the same voice calls. “Help us out.”

“Up here!” Mituna shouts, and you clap a hand hard over his mouth. His eyes go wide and horrified.

Fuck - of course there’s a psychic in the bunch, they wouldn’t send a team for a volatile psion without one. You dare to hope they haven’t heard him, can’t pinpoint your location, but you hear the footsteps approach and ice slides down your spine.

Mituna wrenches your hand away. “Get the fuck out of here, Meu, I’ll take them.”

“Not a chance,” you say. “Mind control doesn’t work on me.”

You don’t like thinking about the work it took to shield your pan so fully, or everything that happened before. Mituna doesn’t need to know the gritty details, and neither does Kankri, or Rosa. But it’s useful as hell in situations like this, and you’re not about to look a gift hoofbeast in the mouth.

“Meu.”

“The psychic is their trump card,” you murmur. “I think I can still take them. Be very still and run if things go south.”

“They’ll kill you.”

You stroke through his hair with your fingertips. “You think I care?” you say with a small grin, and then you equip your claws.

“Let’s take this really easy.” The voice belongs to the olive, who swings a leg over the ledge and stands military-straight. Huh. You didn’t know green could do mind control, but maybe the rarity is what got them into the corps in the first place.

Mituna stands up, his gaze unfocused, distress pulling on the corners of his mouth. You swear under your breath and watch the olive, careful, waiting to see if the other two make an appearance, waiting to strike. You have to take him out fast, before he figures out he can’t influence you and decides Mituna works better as a weapon than a hostage.

“He has a pretty big bounty on his head,” the olive says, conversational, and it takes a moment for you to realize he’s talking to you. “You could share the profit.”

There’s no way he doesn’t know who you are. Honestly he’s just insulting your intelligence, like he’d share funds with a traitor, like you’d take money over clade to begin with. You relax your face into an easy smile and say, “Sounds like a fun talking point to me.”

Mituna stiffens, flashing a glance between you two.

“We needed him to get out of the Court, but he’s useless to us now,” you say, and you know the words will hurt him, and you apologize silently for needing the hurt to be real, for needing him confused to get closer. You inch forward and let the claws slide back in, still smiling. “I’ll cut you a deal. Trade Captor for a chance for the rest of us to go free. If you come down on my clade, we’re going to have problems.”

“Meu,” Mituna says.

“Stay back,” says the olive. “Let me grab the psion, and we’ll be on our way. Think we can leave your clade unharmed. For now, anyway.”

“See, this is my idea of a good negotiation.” You place a hand on Mituna’s lower back and nudge him forward. He goes, halting and confused, and the psychic doesn’t have enough of a hold to make his stride even but Mituna isn’t sparking like he would be if his pan were wholly his own.

It’s inconvenient and clunky, their journey down the fire escape. With any luck, the olive will be too confident in their hold to…

“Don’t waste a tranq bullet,” says one of the others, and you could laugh out loud. “We only have so many. Let’s get out of here.”

Morons. You wait until they’re at the mouth of the alley, can’t believe they think they’ve gotten away with it, and then you spring from the corner of the building and land on the olive’s shoulders.

They’re not expecting an aerial attack because the roof is three floors up and no one in their right mind would jump three legislacerators without being ready to die. The element of surprise gives you just enough time to knock the olive to the ground, which wrenches his grip away from Mituna - you slide your claws out seamless, and drive them down so hard into his skull that they come out slick with brain matter.

Good thing you’re not squeamish! Mituna rights himself easy enough without the fingers in his mind, and you whirl before he has a chance to act, aiming for the throat of whoever’s closest. But the pierced lacerator already has teal blood on the corner of her mouth, choking on her shock, and now it’s your own surprise that gives the others the advantage.

The death blow you’re expecting doesn’t come, so you have the time to resolve the picture in your mind. It doesn’t compute.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a solid perigree,” the red-glasses legislacerator says, pulling her teal-slicked cane from the chest of her companion. She flashes you a smile that glitters in the streetlights, all sharp teeth and malice. “You want to punch it through with your claws so it’s not so obvious I’m a filthy traitor?”

Legislacerators deal in shade and manipulation. You hope she’ll think you’re too smart for a brute-force attack, that you can take her off guard, and thrust your claws at her glasses instead. Clean shot, shove through the glass, shove through the eyes, out the back of the skull, leave the bodies and rinse off and head home.

Your knuckles hit a psionic shield, translucent and shimmering red-blue between you. Mituna’s hands are up, separating the pair of you as physically as he can manage. He could snap her neck in a second, turn the bodies to ash, but you can't let him - you have promises to keep. Murder twists a troll, and he’s fragile no matter how much he tries to protest otherwise. You lay a hand on his arm, soothing, but his face isn’t animal or anguished. Instead you find the strangest expression you’ve ever seen - his brow furrowed, mouth flat, like he’s blinking to dispel a desert mirage.

“Latula,” he says.

The legislacerator smiles and opens her mouth, and out comes hyena laughter that licks the hairs on your arms, makes them stand straight up. She laughs like a clown undone by a good punchline, leaning on her cane, no trace of fear.

“Miss me, hotshot?”

Mituna growls and drops the shield. “I’ll kill you.”

“You won’t. But your companion here will.” She pouts at you, but then the smile is back. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you murder is a rude way to greet an old friend?”

“You’re not taking me back alive.”

“Oh, please. I’m not taking you back at all. I mean, I could. Could have wiped out this pretty picture singlehandedly. Do you know how fucking obnoxious it is to send three trolls to do what one could? It’s like he’s doubting my abilities or something.”

Mituna snarls this time and bolts forward. You jerk an arm toward him to stop him from doing something he’ll regret, like that would solve anything when he can shoot lightning beams from his eyes, your other arm angled toward the lacerator in case you need to steal the kill for yourself. But then you realize you’ve misjudged the interaction entirely when he knots his fingers in her hair and kisses her.

It’s the most vicious kiss you’ve ever seen, and you’ve watched a lot of highblood pitch pairs go at it. He slams her back against the wall and pulls so hard on her hair that you’re surprised none rips out, and she laughs and sinks those sharp teeth so deep into his lip that yellow stains his chin. When she hooks her hands around his neck and drags her claws down his skin like she’s tracing an artificial collar, you step over the olive corpse and shove yourself between them.

“Holy fuck,” you say. “Control yourselves.”

The lacerator laughs, another hyena pitch. “You really going to auspistice us? We have time for a quickie.”

“Get off of him,” you say calmly, “or I’m going to put my fist through your throat.”

Mituna steps away, wiping the blood from his mouth. “It’s okay, Meu,” he says.

“Like fuck it is.”

“She killed her companion, look.”

“Because she’s tryna buy time to run. She knows we’d have killed her so she’s playing pretty traitor to wiggle out alive. That’s what being a legislacerator is. Fucking other people over in the name of results.”

“What a cynical and hilariously accurate view you have of the profession,” the teal says.

“It’s - it’s okay. Just give her a second to explain herself.”

“Did you miss the reason they're here? The mind control? I’m sorry? Are you fucking insane?”

“She wasn't doing the controlling, though.”

“I will let her explain if you two swear not to fuck in this alley.”

“Aw,” the teal says.

“Meulin.” His voice comes out strained with loathing - self-loathing or black, you can’t tell. “It’s okay. This is Latula Pyrope. She’s my kismesis.”

The tealblood smiles, softer this time, less glitter on her fangs. “Neophyte Redglare. Call me by my hatch name and I’ll gut you throat to waist.”

“Underground Huntress,” you say, mostly for the sake of watching her reaction. Her eyes narrow just slightly behind the glasses, which you consider a victory. “Touch my moirail again and I’ll do the same.”

“Well,” Mituna says. “This sure is a cozy in-clade introduction.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pitch pairs. fucking honestly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> makes another fic that was supposed to be a oneshot into a three parter

The lacerator convinces you to bring her back to your camp. Her argument is a simple, “I already know where you’re staying and if I was planning to kill you all then I absolutely would have by now, you incompetent fucks,” which results in Mituna trying to bite out her tongue, which is your cue to drag both of them into the street so they can be presentable.

Pitch pairs. Fucking honestly.

You figure if things go south, the worst that happens is you kill her and end up in the barkbeast shed while Kankri paps Mituna for the next perigree. That’s the most likely bad outcome, anyway. If she tries anything and gets away, you’re dead and Kankri’s dead and Rosa’s dead and Mituna’s in tighter chains than before. Not a fucking chance. You’ll mow down an army before you let that future unfold.

Redglare, you quickly discover, has the biggest shame globes of any troll you know. She saunters up to Rosa - Rosa, the glowing fanged terrifying undead rainbow drinker - and sticks out a hand, all smiles. “Neophyte Redglare. Your psion’s kismesis, not planning to kill you.”

Kankri, watching from the sidelines, recoils with righteous indignation at ‘your psion’. He’s just opened his mouth to start the lecture when Mituna snatches Redglare’s glasses and licks a sloppy stripe up her cheek and says, “I’m no one’s psion. Bite me.”

Which she does, so Rosa picks Mituna up by the scruff of his neck like she’s moving a baby meowbeast and sets him down behind her. You decide to leave the auspisticizing to her, flopping down in Kankri’s lap instead. It has been a very long night and you are too pale for that boy to make an effective ashmate.

“This is the person who was following us?” Rosa says, very carefully. She meets your eyes, and you see reflected there the same calculations you’re making. Will killing the lacerator damage Mituna beyond repair? Will letting her go bring hell down on you? You don’t know enough about her yet, and Rosa doesn’t either.

“Two colleagues and I were following you,” Redglare says cheerfully. She makes an attempt to dart past Rosa - to grab her glasses, you think, her eyes are a sun-damaged scarred red that looks painful - but Rosa’s hand shoots out and grabs her wrist so fast you miss the motion. Redglare’s certain expression falters for a moment.

Vicious satisfaction. _Don’t fuck with Rosa._

“If you please,” says Redglare, a coolness to her tone that wasn’t there before as she draws her wrist out of Rosa’s grasp. Should Rosa feel the need, she could snap the wrist, and the arm, and the neck. The fact that she hasn’t is either out of respect for Kankri or Mituna.

“As I said. Two colleagues and I were following you. Said colleagues are dead. I would be honored to stay here as a prisoner of war, but I would prefer not to be killed. I have no interest in martyrdom.” She beams, turning her attention to you and Kankri. “I do like what you have to say when you speak. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in debating justice?”

Mituna clears his throat. “I don’t think I want her dead.”

“No,” you say, “you just want to screw her.”

“You have a point. Still,” he gives Redglare a sharp look, “if I decide I want you dead, you will be, so don’t push your luck.”

“I’ve already pushed my luck as far as I can tonight. Remind me again when the count resets tomorrow evening.”

Rosa taps her fingers against her skirt. “I recognize that you delight in playing word games, but I would prefer for you to explain your presence here. And your history with Mituna. Honestly, if you please.”

“She’s…” Mituna starts, but Rosa holds up her hand.

“I want to hear her version of the story.”

Redglare shrugs and plops down on the ground, stretching out. Her whole facade is about pretending ease, pretending her guard is down. You don’t doubt that she’s taking in every movement around her and making contingency plans. It’s a fair ploy - act like you aren’t a threat, shock the people who believe it. But you've played this game before.

“Well, it all started when I was hatched.”

“No bullshit, Tula,” Mituna murmurs. “Not now.”

Kankri straightens up very suddenly, like electricity has prodded his spine. “Tula? Oh - Oh my god. This is Latula Pyrope.”

Redglare tilts her head. “I see Tuna’s told you about me.”

“Not even remotely,” Mituna says.

“No. No, she’s in the other world! We know each other!”

Huh. Well, that’s a weird development. Not unheard of, of course - he called you Meulin with the strangest light in his eyes when he first met you, knew Rosa’s hatch name sweeps before she gave it to him. Saved both your lives pulling Mituna’s name out of his ass. It’ll make killing the lacerator harder if he remembers -

No. You pause, breathe out, fight the cynicism. Remember your faith. Because you’ve never had stronger faith than that in him, in his words and his ideas and his world. The visions he has are real, and he speaks about them with a fervor and a longing you’ve never seen another troll. It almost hurts, his passion, burns like a star and envelops everyone he meets - everything from social reform to righteous fury to the strangest softness in his eyes when he sees pictures of the Empress. _She looks so much like a girl I knew once._

So the focus is not the increased difficulty of murder, but the meaning behind this revelation. This woman’s fate was tied up in yours before, and now it seems to be again, for better or for worse.

Everyone digests this for a moment. Redglare speaks first.

“You saw me in your visions,” she says, voice laden with incredulity.

“Yes, but I - okay, that’s not the point, you and Meu and I can talk justice and reform and visions for hours later, you were explaining why you were following us.”

“To make a very long story short, the Highblood tasked two colleagues and me with bringing Captor back to the Court at all costs. He’s furious with every one of you, nearly as furious as he is with himself. I would be very frightened were I you four, but.” A shrug. “Fortunately I’m not you four. Anyway, I’ve been sabotaging the efforts from the start so that Sparks can stay free. You’re welcome.”

“Sabotaging how?” Rosa asks.

“Here’s how a logical takedown would have happened. We would have located the heretic, since he attracts the most attention - this was how we approached the problem. Then we would have located Captor. If we had found him on his own, we would have tranquilized him and brought him in. If he hadn’t separated from the group, we would have found your camp, tranquilized or killed everyone inside, and brought him in.

“But things couldn’t happen that way, could they? Too many variables, I told them. We needed to gather information first or we’d be caught with our pants down. We wouldn’t be able to swarm their camp when they had a feral troll and rainbow drinker with them, especially considering the target is a volatile psion. We don’t want to end up dismembered splatters or the next meal, do we?

“So we followed, observed. I convinced them we shouldn’t split up when doing reconnaissance because it was dangerous. I knew at least one of you would notice us, even if we weren’t in uniform. I kept saying Captor had to go off on his own at some point, and we could get a hold of him then. But Fuckface got impatient and said we needed to make a move because if the Highblood found out we’d had him in our sights for a few perigrees and hadn’t done shit, he’d kill us all. Which was fair, I guess.

“Hence coming out tonight, which ironically was when Cap finally went off on his own. Fuckface had him under control, and I told them not to tranq him because I figured if he was going to escape, not being drugged out of his mind would help - but your feral troll took the grand asshole out, so I killed Lacewing, and here we are.”

She draws a knee to her chest and props her chin up on it. “Any questions?”

“One.” That’s Mituna, still holding her glasses, fingers clenched so tight the lenses may crack. “What were you going to do if I had split off on my own?”

“I figured you’d go to a bar, or somewhere else you could get wasted. Thought I’d wait until you’d had a few, dulled your psionics so the tranquilizers weren’t necessary, and then approach you and try to make you change your mind. I didn’t want to kidnap you. But then I saw how happy you were here and I - figured I’d take a different approach. That when we had to move, I’d engineer it so you could escape somehow.”

“Escape somehow. You expected me to - kill your colleagues, fuck off into the distance.”

“Yep.”

“Kill you too?”

“Maybe.” She raises her head, baring her throat to him, but the vulnerability of the gesture is lost in the haughty expression on her face. “But I know you wouldn’t.”

There’s nothing malicious in the tone. The words are almost innocent. How many times have you or Kankri said the same to him? But he must read them different pitch, or there must be contextual history you can’t read, because he fucking loses it. Dives around Rosa’s arm with his claws out, a blow that you don’t think he intends to end with a kiss. Rosa, bless her heart, grabs the back of his collar again before he can make contact.

Deprived of the physical opportunity, he snaps his psionics in bands around her body, raises her into the air. She hisses through her teeth, but then she laughs, long and loud, the same pitch you heard when she asked _miss me, hotshot?_

Mituna’s hands are up as she lays suspended in the air, eyes narrowed. You can’t tell what he’s concentrating on, but you’d guess that he’s categorizing pulse points and bone structure and vital organs, what to crush first.

“Go ahead, if you can,” she says. It’s mocking. “Tie up the loose end, right? It’s okay.”

His jaw clenches.

You and Kankri are up before you’ve given yourself conscious permission to move. Part of your mind whispers that it’s too late, there won’t be enough time to get to him, but Redglare is still alive and laughing and he’s still standing there like he can’t remember what road the map said to take.

“You can’t, can you? Even after all this time.” She bares her teeth. “Pathetic.”

He breathes out very slowly through his nose. “You’re right. I can’t. I can, however, do this” - and he throws her body out of the camp and into the trunk of a tree. The tree shudders, bends, cracks, and when she falls she doesn’t get up.

\---

He didn’t kill her.

He did, however, give her a broken arm, a cracked horn, and a possible concussion. And a hell of a lot of bruising. Rosa determines that he should not be anywhere near Redglare, so she takes his arm and escorts him out of camp. She’ll shell out the caegars for a daytime payhive if it means Mituna has a room away from this - this viper.

Viper is the best word you can think of to describe her. You and Kankri stay in the camp with her while she massages the base of her skull with her good hand, grumbling. He wanted to go with Rosa and Mituna, but Tuna’s more in need of an auspistice than anything, and you need him to keep you from killing anyone else.

Despite your fury, you are not the first one to speak.

“What the fuck was that,” Kankri says, with a flat coldness you’ve only heard from him when he’s acquiescing to highbloods.

“I got carried away.” She probes at the crack in her horn with a wince. “But hey, I was right. He didn’t kill me.”

“And you call him weak for that?”

“No, I call him pathetic. Which he is. Or were you two piling him because you want to reward him for what a sane and well-adjusted person he is?”

“He’s not crazy.” Kankri’s voice is shaking with repressed fury. You pull him onto your lap and rub his chest, nuzzle his shoulder. Anger takes hold of him less often than it does you, but he has a harder time controlling it, and he always regrets what he says later. Best to nip what you can now.

“Hah. Everyone’s crazy. Him more than most. He has highblood rage but he’s too lowblood to use it for himself, needs someone else to make him, fuck - fuck, I hate him.”

“Are you saying…” That’s your voice now, not nearly as controlled as Kankri’s, and you might not be able to hold him back considering you want to go for her throat yourself. Fuck, Rosa should have stayed in camp. “Are you saying that he enjoyed being forced to kill people?”

“I’m saying he was less fake when he was killing people than when he was putting on his innocent woe-is-me tragic traumatized slave facade.”

“I think you need to leave,” Kankri says.

“Oh? I’m not your prisoner anymore? You’ve decided you’re satisfied?”

“You are a backwards, twisted, evil, emotionally abusive _snake_ ,” he says, “and you need to _leave_.”

“I’m not leaving without saying goodbye to him.”

“I don’t think anyone complacent in his past has earned the right to say goodbye to him. Get the fuck out of our camp.”

It takes a lot of anger for him to dismiss someone he remembers from the other world. Mituna had hands around his throat and Kankri talked him down rather than fight back. Your own history is similar. But he’s shaking as he watches her, and you wonder if for once in his life, your beloved is contemplating violence.

“Fuck.” Redglare’s shoulders slump. “He is… important to me. Please.”

“Do you think I care what he means to you? Do you think I give even a half iota of one single solitary smoldering fuck? Because you have something else coming. Clearly he’s important to the Highblood too, but we all stand agreed that he should never go near that fucker again. What you won’t accept is that you are as big a part of the problem as the Highblood, and Mituna will be better off never seeing you again.”

“Our relationship was not like his relationship with the Highblood.”

“Really? Because from what you’ve showed me so far, I see no fucking difference.”

“I will not - pretend that what we had is healthy. Or that what we have now is healthy. But we hurt each other in equal measure. I guarantee you he hurt me as much or more than I hurt him.”

“He did not have the social capital to do so.”

“He was moirails with the Grand Highblood,” she snaps. “You think he couldn’t leverage _that_ particular bit of social capital? Or, no. You think he’s just too tender and innocent to ever do such a nasty thing.”

Kankri pauses.

This conversation isn’t going to get anyone anywhere. You slide between them. “Redglare does need to leave,” you say, because she’s dangerous and she makes Mituna crazy in a way that pitch isn’t meant to. “But she can stay until evening. If Mituna wants to say goodbye to her, he can. If he doesn’t, she leaves without so much as sniffing him. If she makes a fuss about that, she can answer to Rosa.”

Redglare runs a hand through her hair. “Fine,” she says stiffly.

“Which leaves us hours, and I don’t think any of us want to sleep. So.” You point at her. “Tell us what the fuck happened between you two.”

You ask out of concern, sure, but mostly curiosity. You like shipping and gossip too much to pass up the opportunity.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> confession, conclusion, and goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand we have an ending

Redglare’s story is just as messy as you expect.

She reiterates the parts you know already, adding more detail than you ever wanted. Kankri goes stiller and stiller against you as she speaks, muscles taut save the fine tremor running through him. He might throw up. He has a few times, over awful slave stories - held himself together long enough to hold and comfort, and then excused himself to lose his dinner in the woods.

You trace your fingers over his chest to calm him. Redglare is adding more far imagery than strictly necessary - trying to poison your image of Mituna or get under your skin or just talking like a legislacerator because she doesn’t know better, you're not sure.

“I don’t need to know all of this,” Kankri interjects at one point, voice just as taut and strained as his body.

“Oh? But we have hours, and I thought you wanted a full accounting.”

Her version of the tale goes as follows:

She and Mituna met at eight, nine sweeps. Fuck if she can remember. Both were barely into their adult molts. She was in the Court of Miracles with a handful of other prospective legislacerator trainees who’d scored ridiculous marks on their first qualifying tests. She also knew that clowns didn’t give half a shit about qualifying tests, and planned to make an impression on the Grand Highblood himself. After all, there’s a fine line between daring and suicidal recklessness, and all the legendary lacerators walk it nightly!

She’d heard of the lowblood arena but didn’t like the practice (at this, you’d let out a snort of disbelief so obvious that she’d dropped her pretenses entirely, curled her lip and snarled, “Some politics are a necessary means to an end”). The sweep’s competitive season was ending, meaning that the new champion would fight the old, and refusing an invitation would have been the kind of slight she didn’t want to invoke. Not so soon.

The ‘old’ champion, ironically, was a subject of gossip because of his youth. At six sweeps old, expected to burn out in the first bloodbath rounds of fighting, he not only massacred everyone in his path - he walked into the arena, took one look at the brownblood champion with a curious penchant for mental manipulation, and snapped her neck before she could size him up.

Fastest fucking championship anyone had ever seen. And the same the sweep after that. Pipsqueak psion with pretty eyes taking the fun out of betting, ruining the gore. Clean, easy executions much more at home with a seadweller militia than the clowns. Surely would have fetched a pretty price as a wader’s ship, but champions were Messiah protected. Sacred. There for a reason, even if they were motherfucking boring.

Apparently during the match Redglare watched, someone decided to test the limits of the Messiah protection. Someone allied with the new champion, someone who wanted to make a mint on bets, the new champion himself, who the fuck knew?

Whatever happened behind the scenes, Mituna was thrown into the arena under influence of a chemical restraint that killed his psionics. The new champion was a beefy rustblood with just enough telekinesis to aid takedowns and a flair for the graphic. There would be bloodshed if he won. Watching, Redglare figured the odds had been stacked in a different way. Quick fight, done deed, a new old.

Which… seemed to be the case. What the hell was a twiggy malnourished psion supposed to do? Mituna hadn’t been trained in hand-to-hand combat. He’d always relied on the power of his psionics to shield and kill before the opponent could get an advantage. Sure, his size made him faster, but he couldn’t run while he waited for the return of his psionics, not forever. He’d exhaust himself.

And exhaust himself he did, until the rustblood deemed it time to end the suffering once and for all - by wrestling Mituna to the ground. And that was where he made a fatal mistake: drawing it out.

(In fairness to the champion, Redglare says, he was fighting Mituna for his life. Hard to view the person killing you as a victim unless you’re fucked in the pan, and no one gets that far in a killing competition by being a good person. Not to mention he was probably begging the favor of the clowns by putting on a show. After all, if he survived, he’d have to spend a sweep in their company - and Mituna’s bloodless executions had made him unpopular enough in the Court to get him in this position, hadn’t they?)

And that was about when Mituna, pinned on his back, wounded, delirious, drugged, frenzied, screaming with pain and terror - that was about when he jerked his head up and thrust one horn through the underside of the rustblood’s jaw. It was his first adult fight. Said horns were longer and sharper than they’d been when he was an adolescent. Congratulations to the underdog.

And then he had a hard time dislodging the horn from the skull to extract himself from the body (which made the audience laugh), and when he finally did, he was too tired to stand, so he laid down with his face so caked with blood that he couldn’t see, and passed out while they called the match.

The Grand Highblood carried him out of the arena.

“The person who drugged him,” you say. “That - it - it was the Highblood, wasn’t it.”

Redglare shrugs. “The practical part of me says speculation is useless. The legislacerator side of me says it had to be someone he trusted, someone he was close to. As far as I know, he wasn’t close to many people.”

“But - but…” If Kankri wasn’t in danger of throwing up before, he definitely is now. “But that’s - they were _pale_ , the power dynamics were abusive and fucked up and the Highblood was a manipulative bastard but he never wanted to _kill_ …”

“No,” you murmur. “He wasn’t trying to kill Mituna.”

“What the fuck do you think he was trying to do, then!”

“Faith.”

Redglare presses her lips into a thin line.

“ _What?_ ”

“Arena practice isn’t just for entertainment,” you say. “I mean, it is. Entertainment is the biggest factor. But it’s a religious practice too. Cleansing. The clowns like to purge the sick and weak by themselves, but it’s less work to make lowbloods do it themselves - and then the ones left are exceptional by design. If they’re alive, it’s because the Messiahs mean them to be. The Highblood would have considered Mituna’s psionics a gift from the gods, but maybe he wanted to be sure. He drugged him to see if divine intervention would save him - and it did.”

“But what if it hadn’t?”

“Then Mituna wouldn’t have been sacred, and therefore not a worthy palemate. But, go figure! He was. The Highblood must have thought it one hell of a sign of serendipity.” You snort - you feel sick enough already, and if you don’t laugh you’ll cry. “Bet that makes it burn all the more that he ran off with a couple of heretics.”

Redglare sighs quietly. “I wish I had information to refute that,” she says, “but that’s my theory too.”

“How could - I don’t _understand_ , how could you do that to someone you’re pale for, how could anyone…”

“Some trolls are twisted, love,” you say, taking his hands.

“That’s not good enough! There has to be a reason, there’s always a reason!”

“Some trolls love their gods more than they’ll ever love each other.”

“Just - fuck, keep going. You haven’t even gotten to meeting him yet,” Kankri says, and Redglare launches back into her tale.

Champion life is pretty boring during the rest of the sweep, especially if you’re an unpopular pissblood with a fear of clowns who prefers to hide from the public. She met him when she was wandering the underground halls in the day and bumped into him, drifting through the place like a ghost. Another twist of fate. Most trolls would have kept a healthy distance, especially after last seeing him feral and screaming and covered in blood. Redglare, prospective legislacerator in training, bought him a coffee.

Over said coffee, he explained his philosophy to her, which was that if he lowered his inhibitions once a sweep then he could survive long enough to be composed everywhere else. He didn’t take _pleasure_ in killing people - he did what he needed to do, and rewarded himself by being a real person in the interim. No outside-arena murder for him, nosiree. These hands were washed of blood.

She proceeded to needle him about the logical inconsistencies in two such vastly different identities until he pulled her into a closet to prove just how harmoniously the two could coexist.

And just like that, she had an in with the Grand Highblood.

Of course, Mituna wasn’t pleased that she’d used him (“more mad that he fell for it, if you ask me”), and since he’d sworn off outside-arena violence, he asked his illustrious moirail to teach her a lesson with chucklevoodoos instead.

Kankri stiffens in your arms. “I don’t believe you,” he says.

Redglare’s lip curls again, an expression of distaste so offset from her usual grin that it can’t be fake. “Wow,” she says. “You really don’t think he’s capable. No wonder you like him so much.”

But you’re thinking about the way he kissed her in the alley, like the only thing keeping her alive was his fascination, like he was drunk on hatred and delirious with lust and would have laid waste to the world if it kept her hating him too.

“I believe you,” you say.

“Thank you.”

“Doesn’t make me any less pale for him, though.”

“Somehow I didn’t expect it to.”

The story continues. The pitch fling might have ended there if Mituna’s plan hadn’t backfired, because Redglare held up surprisingly well under mental terrorism. Well enough, in fact, for the Grand Highblood to find himself nearly as fascinated with her as he was with his sparkbug. She’d gotten the first impression she wanted and just had to trade a few mental scars for it.

And he wanted her in the Court until her official training started because she had the makings of a Grand High Legislacerator, even though it would be sweeps before she had the experience to match. Which was where her rivalry with Mituna began in earnest, a vicious competition for his attention.

The Grand Highblood was just amused on the surface but, Redglare muses, he was probably more pleased about the turn of events than he cared to admit. Anything to kindle fire in his listless palemate’s eyes. And the games she played had less to do with the Highblood’s rules than her own. Constant provocation, undermining, surprise attacks, because if Mituna didn’t take the bait then she’d live another night and if he killed her then she’d won.

It’s about then that you realize this woman has no intentions of living long enough to become Grand High Legislacerator. Ambitious? Sure, but not enough to quell the desire to impale herself on her own cane. Lacerators are fearless, but this recklessness is something else. It’s fucked up to feel the grudging admiration you do. Nothing romantic about suicidality, but damned if she isn’t like anyone you’ve ever met.

You also realize why Mituna flipped when she challenged him for her life. She was playing out an old script to see if the tune had changed, throwing his buried past in his face.

_I know you wouldn’t kill me._

_I know you’re still pretending you haven’t killed before. Pretending you had no choice. Pretending you bear no responsibility. I know you’re still pretending you aren’t a monster. Is that the only way you can live with yourself? Pathetic._

And thus they fucked each other up and just plain fucked each other, at least until she shipped out for her official training and never heard from him again, at least until she came back to the Court and was handed a shiny new assignment to hunt him down.

“I need you to understand something about me and him,” Redglare says as she concludes the tale, and for the first time she looks nervous, twisting her hands in her lap. “I have never - he was never happy in the Court. Never. Keeping him happy wasn’t a huge priority for the Highblood. When the Highblood’s powers were in his pan, he was at peace. When they weren’t, he was just… lost. Directionless. Our rivalry was the only thing that seemed to wake him up. That, and the arena. I wasn’t trying to rob him of pleasure with the pitch, I was giving him something to live for. And he - I…”

A muscle twitches in her jaw. “He… gave me something to live for too. He is important to me. I’ve never seen him look so happy or at ease as he does with your clade. There aren’t enough caegars in the world for me to take that from him.”

“Sounds like you care about him,” you say.

“He’s my pitchmate. Of course I care about him.”

“I wasn’t aware your definition of pitch involved care,” Kankri says with such coldness that you wonder how Redglare avoids tearing out his throat.

She goes very still instead. “Screw you,” she says. “Get off your pretentious high hoofbeast. I have made mistakes. I have hurt him. But don’t you ever, ever fucking dare tell me I don’t care about him. Do not fucking tell me what I feel.”

“Screw you too!” he yells.

The vehemence is startling, out of character, and you’re fairly sure he isn’t pitch flirting. You lay your hands over his. “Love.”

“If you have something to say to me, say it,” Redglare says.

“If you really cared about him, you would have gotten him _out_.”

Redglare takes a sharp breath, closer to a pained gasp than shock.

“What did you think when he had to go into the arena! How could you think any of it was okay? How could you have prioritized being a legislacerator above your quadrantmate - you have a moral compass, you’ve demonstrated that! This wasn’t a case of you just not _knowing_ this was wrong, this was a case of you willfully choosing your ambition over a troll in need, how could you - how the _fuck_ can you profess to care about him? Because to me it sounds like you were enamored with a troll who was dependent on you for pleasure, and why would you ever want to allow him anything that made him happy outside of you?”

He’s puffed up with air, about to go on, when Redglare interrupts him.

“You’re right.”

That takes the wind out of his sails. “What?”

“Not about me being enamored with his dependency. That was the Highblood, not me. I always considered him my rival and therefore overlooked the fact that I wanted to be in the Court and he did not. I… don’t think he wanted to escape, at least not while we were together. If he did, he never mentioned it to me, and he told me a lot of things he didn’t want the Highblood to hear. I like to think that if he’d asked me to help him get out, I would have. But regardless, you’re right. I should have helped him. I thought I was, but the most I was doing was easing his pain for a while. I wasn’t truly helping him, not the way your clade has. His abuse was at least partly my responsibility.”

Kankri closes his eyes, deflating. “You should tell him that.”

“I’m not sure he wants to hear it.”

You snort and shake your head. “Trust me,” you say, “he does.”

\---

The combined vulnerability and responsibility cool Kankri off enough to talk philosophy with her, debating the finer merits of justice versus mercy versus grace. You shift to doze in his lap as he talks, confident that he can stay awake long enough to make sure she doesn’t run off and report to her superiors. Just in case she’s been fucking with you this whole time. Just in case.

Mituna and Rosa return in the early evening. Both look tired, but Mituna’s exhausted enough that you gather him up in your arms immediately, deep shadows under his eyes and downturned ears. You suspect he’s been crying.

“Hey,” you say, kissing his temple, his cheek, his jaw. Scenting salt. “Did you sleep?”

“No,” he says. “I was talking some shit out with Rosa.”

The same sort of shit you were talking out with Redglare, you suspect. You wonder how his version of the events went. “She’s still here,” you say, “but if you want her to leave we’ll kick her out.”

“No. No, I should at least say sorry for throwing her into a tree.”

You snort. “Fair enough.”

Redglare emerges from the tent and clears her throat. “Hey,” she says, quieter than she’s been with him yet. “Can we talk?”

Mituna nods. “With an auspistice, sure.”

“I’ll do it,” you say.

You’re still too pale for him to be a real ashmate, but Rosa hasn’t spent a day getting to know the ins and outs of Redglare’s bizarre mannerisms. Not that one day is near enough to understand a troll, but you feel confident that you can keep this conversation on track, at least. Kankri won’t be able to, not angry as he still is.

You lead them both away from the camp, settle on a large root poking out of a muddy riverbank, watching the water swirl past. “This is a peaceful place to have painful conversations,” you say. “Which of you wants to start?”

When Mituna tries to sit beside Redglare, just out of your reach, you reach across her lap and drag him to your other side, acting as the most physical of barriers.

“I’ll start,” he says. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too,” she says.

Silence.

“Well, this is productive.” You pat both of them on the shoulders. “Great job!”

His throat clicks as he swallows. “Fuck you,” he repeats. “I _loved_ you.”

You sense her stillness more than see it, her shoulders going tense. “Past tense?”

“Yes. No. Fuck, how should I know? You’re the one who left me!”

“ _What?_ ”

“Running off to legislacerator training as soon as you had the fucking chance, starting up a rivalry with the first hot trainee you found, I’m sure, what need do you have for the idiot pissblood who for some reason deluded himself into thinking you gave a shit? No, no, use him up and throw him away just like you meant to from the beginning, just like you use everyone, fuck, I hate you, I hate you, I _hate you_.”

“You knew I'd have to leave for training from the moment you met me - I wrote you every fucking week! Two or three times a week, sometimes!”

“What?”

“Emails, letters, mostly gloating about all the different ways I was learning to kill, mocking you about how it doesn’t come so naturally to some people - what the fuck did you think any of that was? Why would I bother if I didn’t still hate you?”

Mituna goes very, very quiet for an alarmingly long time. When he finally speaks, there’s something so confused and small in his tone that your bloodpusher cracks open.

“You wrote me?”

Fuck, you want to hold him forever.

“Of course I…” Redglare trails off, swallowing. “He didn’t… let you… see.”

“I didn’t... know you wrote me.” His voice wobbles, cracks. “You left and you didn’t come back.”

“I came home and you were gone.”

Mituna takes a ragged breath. “I would have taken you with me.”

“Would you have stayed for me?”

He flinches, chokes on air. “Don’t ask that of me, Tula. You can stay here but I won’t go back with you.”

“That is the correct answer.” Redglare smiles her signature grin, traces of her personality reforming. The who-gives-a-fuck? not-me legislacerator is definitely still there. “I was going to slap you silly if you’d give up this life for some girl.”

“You’re a little more than some girl,” he says.

“I can’t stay with you, though.”

“I see.” He laughs, sharp and bitter. “Ambition still matters more than anything, huh?”

“Oh, please. I’m a filthy traitor. I worked hard to get where I am. Now I’m going to work even harder to crumble the infrastructure from the inside out. I don’t make a good inside influence if I’m not on the inside!”

She pauses. “...But I am sorry. I miss you.”

“I miss you too. You're the fucking worst.”

\---

She kisses him before she leaves, a little too tender for pitch.

“You’ll be okay?” he says.

“Of course.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“You’re dead,” she says. “We zeroed in, Fuckface had a hold on you but you broke it and killed him, Lacewing killed you in a fit of passion, I culled her for disobeying protocol. Close enough to the truth.”

“So what happens if we get caught and he finds out I’m not dead?”

“Just don’t get caught, Sparks. Honestly.”

“But if we do?”

“I can’t believe you’re worrying about how my alibi will hold up if you’re arrested for high treason. I’ll figure something out. Promise.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “I guess you really can’t write me this time.”

“Yeah. I guess not.”

“Come see me if you ever happen by a sermon again. I mean, if you aren’t there to arrest everyone. Um.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll miss you.”

“Hey. Don’t get sentimental on me.” She swats his side with her good arm, kisses him again. “It’s gross. Take care of yourself. And you three” - pointing at you, Kankri, and Rosa in turn - “whatever you’re doing, it’s working. Keep doing it.”

Then she grins, salutes, and flips Mituna off. “Catch you on the flip side, asshole!” she says, and strides out of camp.

To his credit, Mituna holds himself together until long after you’re sure she isn’t coming back. It’s not until the sky is starting to lighten that he says, “Fuck. God dammit. I need you.”

You and Kankri draw him into the tent and settle him down in the pile, and there’s nothing you can do to ease the rawness of the wound, and nothing you can do to stop his memories, and nothing you can do to bring her back. But you stroke his hair while Kankri rubs his back, and his breath hitches once, and then you do what you can and give him your shoulder while he cries.


End file.
